


definition: love

by Ryah_Ignis



Series: Season 14 Codas [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 14x06 Coda, M/M, chatting about love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 14:28:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16662633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryah_Ignis/pseuds/Ryah_Ignis
Summary: "Dean sighs.  He might not be able to snap his fingers and make the kid stop coughing up blood, but he can at least answer the question.“Love is needing someone,” he says quietly. “Not because of what they can do for you, but because of what they are for you.”Post 14x06, Jack is sick and wants to know about love.





	definition: love

When Jack opens his eyes, the first words out of his mouth are the very last words that Dean would have expected.

“What  _ is  _ love, then?”

Dean lets out a shaky breath.  Despite himself, he’s grown to care about Jack.  He doesn’t know what he would have done if he’d had to tell Sam—had to tell  _ Cas _ —that he was gone.

The last hour or so has passed in a blur.  After Jack’s collapse, Dean hauled him into his room and tucked him beneath the covers.  He’s been pacing back and forth, dialing and redialing ever since.

He lowers the cellphone at the sound of Jack’s voice and sits gingerly at the end of the kid’s bed.  The tinny recording of Cas’s voicemail keeps playing even as he muffles it into the blankets. 

There’s a sour scent just beginning to tinge the air.  How he hadn’t noticed before is beyond him. Dean thinks of the trials—of bloody tissues in the trash can—and mentally kicks himself.

“You scared the hell out of me, kid.”

Jack’s eyes lower. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, and the high points of his cheeks glow red.  He bunches the blankets in his fist and doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes.

“Don’t be sorry.”

Suddenly, all he can think about is Sam, swallowed in the sheets of a too-big motel bed, lower lip quivering as he fought off another round of shaking shoulders,

“I got some medicine in you while you were out, but I don’t know how much it will help.”

They’d run out of medicine that week, Dean remembers.  He shakes off the memory of his six-year-old brother. Sam’s fever had come down with some ibuprofen in him.  He knows better than to hope it’ll be the same for a Nephilim.

Jack lets out a wracking cough.  Dean springs from his seat and hands him a tissue so he doesn’t smear blood in his blankets. 

“For the record,” Dean says, taking the now-bloody tissue and dumping it in the trash can next to Jack’s bed, “this is not what a cold looks like.”

Jack says nothing.

Dean sighs.  He might not be able to snap his fingers and make the kid stop coughing up blood, but he can at least answer the question.

“Love is needing someone,” he says quietly. “Not because of what they can do for you, but because of what they are for you.”

Jack nods—keeps nodding, because his head is heavy and he can’t quite stop.

“Sit up a minute,” Dean tells him.

He pulls Jack forward a little, fluffs his pillow.  Jack sinks back into it the moment Dean lets go, letting out a sigh.  Dean heads toward the door, convinced that Jack isn’t going to die, at least not right this moment.

“Dean?” Jack says after a moment, voice small, “I love you.”

Dean pauses, hand on the light switch. “Get some sleep.  Cas will be home soon.”

* * *

Jack manages to lever himself up on to his elbows when he hears the door open.  He tries not to frown when Charlie walks through the door instead of Cas or Sam.

“I brought provisions,” she says. “Sam will come see you soon.  He’s got two hunters up in Albuquerque that have never seen a ghoul before.”

Jack tries to smile.  It must look a little lopsided, because Charlie’s fades.

“Laptop, DVDs, the whole shebang.”

She sets her offering down on the end of Jack’s bed.

His face lights up. “ _ Star Wars _ ?”

Charlie grins. “Best movies of all time.  I love Leia.”

He’s been turning over what Dean said in his mind for the last few hours as he stared at the ceiling—his chest hurts too much to do anything else—and it doesn’t quite make sense yet.

“Charlie, what’s love?”

A flash of emotions play out across her face, one after the other.  It’s too fast for Jack to follow. She finally settles on a neutral expression.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that you’re not talking about Leia.”

Jack nods.  He knows why someone would love  _ her _ —she’s the coolest.

“Love is pretending you love cupcakes, even if you don’t, just because she makes them for you.”

Her eyes glitter a little with tears.  Jack focuses on the shiny DVD cover while she recovers.

“Anyway.  Rest. The others will swing around soon.”

Jack watches her retreating back until the door clicks shut and then slides the DVD out.

* * *

Toward the end of The Empire Strikes Back, Jack pauses on “I know” and fishes his phone out of the tangle of his sheets.

_ Mary? _

He types and retypes the text a few times before he finally sends it.

_ what’s love? _

If anyone would know, it would be Mary.  When they were captured by Michael, she’d tell him stories at night as she patched him up after Michael’s experiments.  About Sam and Dean when they were kids, about her husband, her parents. 

Love had been in every one.

She hesitates on her answer.  Jack can see the bubbles appear and then disappear.  He holds his phone tighter.

_ Love is being there for someone. _

Then, another text.

_ I heard from Sam.  I’m on my way. _

Love is being there.  Jack puts the phone away, and despite the pain in his chest, he doesn’t think he’s felt this at ease since Lucifer stole his Grace.

* * *

By the time Sam bursts into his room, Jack is nearly done with  _ Return of the Jedi. _  Sam has the beginning of a five o’clock shadow edging on to his face.  Jack wonders distractedly if that’s what happens when he gets worried—he just grows a beard.

“Jack.”

Jack tries to suppress a cough.  His whole body shakes with it. Sam sits down on the edge of his bed, reaches out to take his temperature with the back of his hand.  It’s cool. Jack leans into it despite himself.

He’s expecting Sam to yell at him for putting himself—for putting Dean—in danger.  The buddy system doesn’t do much good when one of the buddies is spitting up blood in between interviewing witnesses.  Sam doesn’t.

“I thought—” Sam’s voice stops. 

He looks so much older than the last time Jack saw him.  For the first time, he notices the glint of silver just beginning to poke through the roots of Sam’s hair.  Sam scrubs a hand over his face. It doesn’t do much to make him look less exhausted.

“Love,” Jack says abruptly, wanting to distract him. “Dean tried to explain it to me.”

A smile. “Dean?  As in, my brother?”

Jack just stares at him. “He’s the only Dean I know.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, I know.  He’s just not really—love and  _ love _ , you know?  Not really his bag.”

Jack doesn’t know what he could possibly mean by that.  He’s not sure if it’s the pounding headache that’s beginning to build behind his eyes or not.  He must look confused, because Sam keeps going.

“Love, huh?” Sam smooths his hands over his thighs, brushes some dirt off the knees of his jeans. “Forgiveness.  That’s love.”

Jack can’t help the yawn.  He tries his best to fight it back, but Sam still notices.  His face softens.

“You need rest.  Whatever this is—well.  You’ll need all the strength you can get.”

* * *

When Jack opens his eyes again, it’s to find Castiel sitting by his bedside.  He blinks blearily for a moment. It’s hard to keep his eyes open.   
  
“Hello, Jack,” Cas says, leaning forward.   
  
He brushes some of Jack’s hair out of his face.  Jack’s throat closes over, and it’s not his illness.  He’s seen that movement in movies and TV shows.

As far as Jack is concerned, he doesn’t have a father.  But he imagines this is what it’s like.   
  
“I brought you soup.”   
  
Jack tries to sit up, but he doesn’t have the energy.  Cas braces a hand behind his head and helps him lean against the headboard.  Jack has never felt so weak in his life.   
  
“Thanks,” Jack manages to croak.    
  
He takes a swallow as Cas raises a spoon to his mouth.  Jack can’t quite tell what the flavor is, but the warmth feels good on his throat.  His whole body aches, and even the slight movement hurts. He closes his eyes.   
  
“I tried to heal you while you were asleep.”   
  
Neither of them need to finish the sentence.  Something cold settles in Jack’s chest.   
  
He doesn’t think he’s afraid to die—facing down Lucifer in that church, all he’d wanted was for Sam to escape.  But the thought of Cas here in this room, alone, Cas carrying his body, wrapped in a sheet—it nearly breaks him.   
  
“Cas—“ he starts, but he can’t quite finish the thought.    
  
Cas spoons another mouthful into Jack’s mouth.  When a bit escapes on to his chin, Cas wipes it away.   
  
“Dean said I should give you ‘the talk,’ but only once you’re better.”   
  
He puts actual air quotes around the words.  Jack tried to smile, but it takes pretty much all of his energy to stay upright.   
  
“Tell me about love, then.”

Cas smiles.  There’s a flicker of the Castiel that Jack knows beneath the worried hunch of his shoulders.

“Love is coming home,” Cas tells him. “Come on.  Eat the rest of your soup.”

Love, Jack decides, is a lot simpler than the movies say.

* * *

“Hey.”

Cas looks up from the pile of books in front of him.  None of them have shown him how to save Jack, and his flipping between pages has gotten more and more frantic as the evening has worn on.

“Dean,” he acknowledges, turning back to the book.

It’s about angelic diseases.  And, as far as Cas knows, it’s totally false.  He’s never heard of an angel getting sick before.  

“It’s been hours.  You need to take a break.”

Cas glares. “I do not need breaks.”

Dean sinks into the chair beside him, watching him carefully.  For his part, Cas returns his gaze to the pile in front of him.  It’s become clear these past through hours that the cure to Jack’s illness isn’t going to be in a book.  There have only been about a dozen Nephilims over the course of human history. None, to Cas’s knowledge, have ever had their Grace ripped out.

“I’ve been thinking about something since I talked to Jack.” 

Something about the tone in his voice makes Cas look up from his book.  Dean takes one from the top of the stack and opens it to the table of contents.

“He asked me about love.”

Cas nods.  Apparently, he’s just been asking around the bunker.  He’d overheard Charlie telling Maggie about it when he’d gone to find a few more books.

“And I started thinking.  About how I’ve never said some things that I should have.”

This is not the right time for this.

“Dean—”

Dean doesn’t look at him. “After Ramiel nearly killed you, you said something.  And I was too scared to do anything about it. I just need you to know that—”

“—I know,” Cas says. “I do, Dean.  I just can’t. Not right now. With Jack, I—”

Dean nods, looks down at the books. “Right.  Yeah.”

He gets up.

When he returns, he has coffee and a blanket that he passes over to Cas without a word.  Then, he takes the seat beside him and opens up his book. Cas glances over at him when Dean’s not looking.  There’s going to be a time for this, he swears it.

Because being here with Dean?  It’s like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for the kudos and comments :D


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